


Obsessions

by ms_munechika



Series: For the Northern Sky [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Original Character(s), Romance, Shameless Smut, Smut, Spoilers, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-23 02:44:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13180716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ms_munechika/pseuds/ms_munechika
Summary: As we all know, Aymeric de Borel is a pure, pure soul. But what if he was not as pure as the game portrays him, a darkness in him that he forced down, even out. After all, in all things, there must be a balance of light and dark and Aymeric (in this story) is no exception.A series of vignettes exploring a history of what “might have been” or “could have been”, between Ser Aymeric and the Warrior of Light. (Fem!WOL, Dragoon, but you can insert your own for the most part.) Mostly from Aymeric’s perspective. If Aymeric seems slightly weird, I promise it'll get better, I swear....Lots and LOTS of Spoilers for Heavensward and, eventually, Stormblood. I take some liberties, I admit, with all the hints and nods to other games from patch 4.1...In short: NSFW like crazy, smuttacular, angsty as all hell, hurt/comfort, power/control, domination/submission, and sexy Ishgardian boys showing their dark sides (at least for a little bit). With a bit of fluff thrown in for good measure in later chapters.





	1. As Goes Light, So Does Dark

**Author's Note:**

> And so it begins... This chapter is a lot of smut, but think of it as "the stage being set".
> 
> As always, your thoughts and comments are much appreciated! I hope you enjoy this little "obsession" of mine. (Sorry, bad pun, but I had to...)

Despite all the gentleness, the smiles... Aymeric knew he only pretended at godliness, of righteousness. There were certainly hints of something darker, he thought, hints he showed to the woman they called the Warrior of Light, albeit unintentionally. The way his eyes would lower, the bitterness in which he told her to at least let him do something after all she had done. Though he knew he was grateful for all that she, this petite yet powerful woman named Mariya, had done, his pride as a man and a warrior felt unease with how very weak he seemed in comparison.

In his hearts of hearts, he knew he was not a pure soul.

After all, when he thought of the power difference between them, his mind would flash with ways in which he might overpower her, not on the battlefield but in a different struggle.

As time passed and he saw less and less of her, his mind would wander to these places, of a certain dream he had thought he had buried and forgotten, memories of the subtle way a certain woman’s lips, so full with the color of a blush rose, parted just a touch when their eyes met, his pale blue to her sun gold. When they had met that first time, he was sure he already knew this girl, though it had not been clear at the time.

Memories.

His father, his father by blood, had always been a touch cruel. Plagued as his bastard son, Aymeric had done everything in his power to prove he was worthy, of becoming a Temple Knight, of being the man’s flesh and blood. And yet, any sense of weakness was failure in his father’s eyes. At a young age, Aymeric had become Lord Commander of the Temple Knights and yet his father could care less. A touch of indignation in Aymeric’s eyes, however, and the old man’s cruel zealots of the Heavensward would throw him into the Vault’s hidden dungeons, often beating him in the struggle.

How many times this had happened, Aymeric wasn’t sure, but he had been angry, so very angry at his father, as well as the mother he hardly knew, the mother who had imparted his handsome features but also a lifetime of whispered glances and continuous rumors. Never should a boy have to fear the hate of his fellow kin for the sins of his parents. But that was not Aymeric’s fate. His bitterness at the price he paid for what he had no part in, of the circumstances of his birth, of an infidelity that labeled him worse than lowborn, drove him mad.

And, in the darkness of his cell, he wanted nothing more than to destroy something pure, something innocent, if only to show the world how he had not deserved the life he was given. That cruelty only beget more cruelty.

Something called to him that night, nursing his wounds as he stared into the pitch black of the dungeons, his ardent wish breeding a force that swept him in the wake of his anger and despair.

He remembered his eyes opening, standing in a forest, a sea of greens and browns. It was night there, as he looked at the sky, the stars so very bright.

The sound of light and quick footsteps. Turning, his blue eyes saw a young woman, Hyur, beautiful beyond belief, calling out to him. She had to be hardly older than twenty (if even that), long black hair, half tied with two braids meeting at the back, skin the color of light sand, the shimmer of sweat on the curve of her neck, eyes the color of bright gold. He had always been fond of gold.

“Master, are you alright?” she cried as she looked up to him. Her gold eyes widened as she realized he was not whoever she had rushed to see, his image reflected in the glassy gaze. Her lips, soft and slightly parted, drew his attention for a fraction of a moment, yet lingered in his thoughts, his hands reaching for her hair, tangling themselves in her locks.

She smelled of purity, of a maiden who had yet to know how very terrible the world could be.

Yes, Aymeric thought, this would do.

Nay, it would more than do; it was perfect. This beautiful girl was the picture of innocence in every way, perfect in every possible way...

And he, Aymeric de Borel, would destroy her.

No, he had not been in his right mind, but anguish did terrible things to a man. His eyes took in her features, the look of both awe and trepidation, the oval face with near perfect symmetry, the mound of her breasts moving up and down with heavy breaths, her waist the perfect size to match wide hips. His ears rang with the title she had used to call out to him, even if it was purely by mistake, and he brought himself close to her, his breath on hers.

It was like love and hate all mixed into a cocktail that drove him insane.

His lips crashed on hers, tasting her, and he thought of berries and sun. Coaxing her mouth open, his tongue invaded her, searching roughly for more to taste, more to feel. Her hands gripped the fabric of his tunic, but she did not struggle, not much at least. He was reminded of the sweetest wine as he pulled away, her breath even heavier than it was before.

Long fingers roamed down the girl, grabbing at her hips as he pulled her against him, growling against her ear, dragging his teeth on her skin. Her whole body shuddered, a gasp escaping her lips, and Aymeric felt such power and control. He pushed her then, to the ground, her back against him as his fingers played with the hem of her long tunic, his desire obvious as he ground his hips against her. The most luscious sound escaped the girl’s lips and he felt heat to his very core, anger leaving him with just wonton lust.

Grabbing her wrists, he pinned them to her back, her face against the grass, his free hand finally slipping under her tunic and down thick leggings, underneath her undergarments.

“Please, I...” she gasped, writhing against him as his fingers found her already wet, making rough circles around sensitive skin. “Ser, please...”

“Call me ‘lord master’,” Aymeric breathed into her ear, his fingers dipping just a touch into her sex, causing another delectable sound from her mouth. “We may not know each other, but I will make you remember me.”

She writhed against him, her back arching as he worked her furiously, playing her as a bard might play a harp. Her instinctive movements, pushing back against his hips, drove him over the edge and he flipped her onto her back, tearing at her clothes like a rabid beast. And yet, she showed no fear, just surprise. The look in her eyes, reflecting the light of the moon, gave way to a reverence in Aymeric’s heart, that perhaps someone finally saw him as he truly was, both of his light and his dark.

For several breaths, his hands paused. She now free of both her outer garments as well as her small clothes, his eyes took her in, this precious girl, and he could not help but feel admiration and, perhaps, affection. Her innocence, her beauty, it was all too much to bear, as if he had a goddess or an angel beneath his fingers.

And he wanted her, wanted her more than he had been angry at his parents or his situation in life. He kissed and tasted her skin, biting here and sucking there, all eliciting a chorus of gasps and moans, her skin electric against his. When he took a taut nipple between his teeth, just enough pressure to cause a hint of pain, she arched her back with a cry, the heat of her body extravagant against him.

By the Fury, he was lost in everything, in that moment. That he could evoke such a symphony of sounds from such a wondrous being made him hunger for all that she could give, to push her to her limits, of how much pleasure and pain he might be able to teach her.

With quick fingers, he untied the belt around his waist, freeing his aching need. It was then that a touch of fear appeared in her eyes, a line between her brows. That her eyes pleaded with him... He enjoyed that very much.

“My lord, I...” she breathed, “Lord master, I have not...”

He smiled, wicked and wanton. The very sound of her voice made him ache.

“Do not worry, my dear, dear princess. The pain will pass and never shall you know pleasure quite like this...” He brought his lips to her ear. “But you must beg for it.”

Her eyelashes fluttered as her eyes closed, her breath growing deeper, heavier. From the blush on her cheeks, he knew he had hit a mark in her thoughts, her soul.

“Please, lord master,” she sighed, her whole body shaking, “please take me...”

“Good girl,” he hummed, a small nip to her earlobe. “My precious girl.”

He brought her legs around his waist, she gazing up at him with her whole body open, so very open to his eyes. At that moment, he wanted to memorize it all, the feel of her, the taste of her, the smell of sex and earth and sweat, the image of an innocent angel about to fall at his hands.

Slowly, painfully slow, he pressed himself into her. She was tight, as he had expected, her whole body shaking as she took him inside of her. Elezen men being well-endowed comparatively to other (shorter) races, it was a wonder to him that he could fit at all. Her cries, every push in going deeper and deeper, grew loud until she screamed, her back arching as her chest pressed against him. He knew then he had broken through her maidenhead, her hands gripping tight to her shoulders, tears at the corner of her tightly shut eyes.

It was beautiful. So beautiful that he kissed her open mouth, kissed the tears from her eyes.

With his forehead touching hers, he worked her slow and gentle, the difference between night and day in comparison to just moments before. When she began to push back, their hips meeting as they found a rhythm, he kissed her again but fiercer, harder. His thrusts deepened as he sped up his movements, their bodies like crashing waves against each other.

He was in love. Aymeric de Borel was in love with a girl whose name he did not know. This dream girl who had bled all his anger and hatred away with but the softness in her eyes and the warmth of her embrace.

“Come for me,” he whispered into her ear, more urgent than commanding. “Come for me, my love. Let me hear your voice so that I may die a happy man.”

Fingers gripped on her hips and he pulled her hard against him, feeling himself fill her so very completely. It made her cry out, her back arching hard as her nails dug so hard into his tunic, he thought it cut through.

“Ah, ah, ah...!” she gasped, holding onto him tightly. “I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming...!”

Nothing had ever sounded so wonderful to his ears. So wonderful, indeed, that he pushed himself to make her come again and again, until she all but lost consciousness with exhaustion, her last orgasm pushing him over the edge, to spill his seed deep within her. Breathless, Aymeric held her close, he still inside her, holding onto this memory as much as he could.

With eyes closed, he pleaded.

“Tell me, what is your name, my love?” he asked, words soft. “Please, I must know...”

“Mariya,” she said, her eyes fluttering close, her fingers combing through his black hair, “For you, Ser Aymeric...”

When his eyes snapped open, he was again in the darkness of the Vault’s lowermost levels. There was a crushing despair, hoping against hope it had not been a dream.

Years past and he began to forget, especially as the Calamity turned Coerthas into a sea of ice and snow. Her name was lost to time and space, though he could remember bits and pieces in the dark hours of his office or bedroom, when he was too tired to think of duty or of work. Just a flash of skin, sand-colored, lush lips open, the taste of salt and sweat on his tongue. All of his friends called him chaste, but little did they know it was because his dreams were haunted by the image of an angel who called him by name. His angel with gold-colored eyes.

And then, he saw her again. By fate or by chance, his pale blue eyes gazed upon his dream lover years later in the intercessory of Camp Dragonhead. Her eyes meeting his, this time in the flesh.

But her gaze did not linger. Mariya, the Warrior of Light, turned to another, the light touching her gold irises as she smiled sweetly.

Never before in his life had he hated, hated an old friend and a brother by choice, hated someone with such clear passion. And he hated Haurchefant Greystone with the fury of Halone herself.


	2. Like Father, Like Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reunion, of sorts. A bit more smut, but also a bit more dialogue. It's a slow burn, my friends... I mean, aside from steamy moments with Ishgardian boys.
> 
> As always, spoilers abound for Heavensward and Stormblood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to say, before anything, I do love Haurchefant and I cried SO hard at the scene at the Vault... you know the one... So please don't take this, any of this, as a slight towards the character. If anything, well... *weeps again*
> 
> As always, please enjoy. :)

Aymeric had never knew the kind of self-control it would take to merely be in her presence, the Warrior of Light, the angel of his dreams, Mariya who had fought Primals and the empire. He had no idea that his fascination for the one bearing the title would lead him straight to the object of his absolute obsession. And yet, he had to remain seated, calm, pretend that the sight of her in the corner of his eyes did not make him want to climb over the table and take her.

What a beast he was, he thought, even as his mind tried to piece an appropriate response to young Alphinaud Leveilleur. How little did everyone truly knew him.

And yet, the Dravanian Horde was at Ishgard’s door and he had duties to attend to, a city to protect. The thought came to him that he had but one chance, one chance to know if his dreams had been merely fantasy or if the fire in his skin was truly an echo of past experience. As he followed Lucia to the exit of the intercessory, he paused, his body still and his eyes narrowed.

Ever faithful, Lucia turned to him, an eyebrow raised.

“Lord Commander...?”

“Pray,” he began, his voice unwavering, “give me but a moment. I will join you shortly.”

She nodded, giving her usual salute. Faithful, unquestioning Lucia. He waited for his second-in-command to leave the room before walking to the door, his fingers sliding the lock closed.

When he turned, Mariya looked up to him, her eyes wide and questioning.

“I would like to meet with you,” Aymeric stated, the tone indicating more of a command than a request. “In my quarters. At the strike of midnight.”

In his eyes must have been a determination that brooked no objection, for the woman (never one for many words) gave a single nod, her hand at her heart. Aymeric, in a breath, wondered if he should have been relieved, but no. His heartbeat was erratic, an itch in his hands, electricity in his fingertips. If he could only reach out and...

With a bow, he unlocked the door and left the room, feeling the heat dissipate in the cold of Coerthas.

Halone forgive him, he was not the man they believed in.

Waiting in the silence of night, not a sound but the snowstorm that billowed outside and the wood crackling in the fireplace, Aymeric shut his eyes, thinking of nothing but a memory. Where it was once just a faded daydream, it had come back in full force in the days where she had been so close, yet so far. Her black hair was shorter now, cut right at the chin, but the cut made his eyes linger on her lips, the shade of blush rose that had haunted him for so long. Her gold eyes, the last he saw her, was the same as when his had first gazed upon her, the light dancing in them, so questioning, so curious. Just a touch of hesitation, but never fear. Never, ever fear.

There came a knock on the door and he opened his eyes, staring into the fire for a breath, before turning to the door.

“Come in,” he stated, his voice cool like the weather outside.

Mariya, his blessed and beautiful angel, walked in, though she wore not her armor, but an adventurer’s coat over a tailored blouse and a red skirt, thigh high boots conforming to the shape of her legs. Aymeric took in a breath and held it for a fraction of a second.

“You wished to see me, Ser Aymeric?” Her voice, the light and sing-song of it he remembered all too clearly.

“Yes. Please, come in.” He turned again to the fire. “And close the door behind you.”

The moment the door shut, a crease formed between his brows, his hands flexing, open and then close, repeated a second and a third time. He could not look at her, for to look at her would mean his downfall.

But he could feel her, feel her presence as she stepped closer, hear her breath in the quiet. In, out, in, out. He counted them, one, two... on the tenth, he turned to her, finally.

“I have but one question for you, not as the Warrior of Light, nor as a Scion, but...” He licked his lips, secretly amazed at the sheer strength of his composure. “As the woman named Mariya who hails from a far land.”

Her hand reached for her heart, her eyes turning to the fire before she returned her gaze to Aymeric, giving a small nod. Another breath, deeper, and a sigh. One step and then another, the tall Elezen drew closer. Close enough that he was within arm’s reach of her.

“Do you remember me?” Aymeric asked, his already deep voice dropping low and soft. “For I remember you, you who have haunted my dreams for the better part of a decade.”

She blinked, looking up at him, just as his hands reached for her, fingers gathering her hair in them. Even the feel of her hair against his skin told him he knew this sensation, knew her as a man would know his lover. The space seemed to close between them, his lips dangerously close to hers, breath against breath. Halone strike him down, he would weather any storm, fight any beast, dragon or otherwise, for just this moment. Even betray a dear friend...

Her hand touched the cloak around his armor, just above his heart.

“Yes, I do.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, but Aymeric thought it rang like thunder in his ears. “I remember you very much, lord master...”

His mouth was on hers, then, pushing her lips apart so that he could, finally, taste what he had yearned for, yearned for years in the quiet of sleepless nights, in dreams that left him aching and sick with desire. It was a gift from the heavens, he thought, and he refused to squander something so precious. He bit on her lip, so sweet were they, like ambrosia from the gods.

But her hands pushed at him, begging him to pause.

“I can’t,” she breathed, even as the light shone in her eyes, her lips bruised from his. “Haurchefant...”

Aymeric’s pale blue eyes narrowed.

“I refuse,” he stated, his grip on her only tightening. There would be bruises on her arms in the morning, he was sure of it. “Is he your lover? Even if he is, I had you first. You were mine before you ever set foot in Eorzea.”

“He is not, no... but...”

“No.” He stared into her eyes. “You haunt me in every waking moment, every time I but think of rest. You have driven me mad, Mariya, and I will not let fate or nature take you from me again.”

Eikon-slayer, Bane of Ifrit, and so many other titles. She may have been the Warrior of Light, Defender of Eorzea--but here, here in his arms, she was his and his to have and to hold. To touch, to taste, to feel. Whether or not Hydaelyn had sent her to save the realm, to him she was but a woman he wanted--nay, loved--beyond all reason, he worshipping the very ground she walked on.

Her touch lifted from his chest, her fingers curling as a closed hand rested against him. Her eyes looked away, the light of the fire dancing in her eyes. Aymeric lowered himself, holding her close, his lips parted so that he breathed against her skin. This was not the reunion he had expected. (Though, had he expected one at all?)

“I have loved you for what feels like a lifetime,” he whispered, holding her tight, but not crushing. “If you will not have me, then so be it, but I cannot shake the thought of you, the feel of you, from my very skin. I would let the dragons turn Ishgard into nothing but fire and brimstone, if it only meant that you might love me in return.”

“Ser Aymeric...” He could feel the air escape her lips, the brush of warmth against his ear. Her fingers touched his cheek, gentle. His eyes shut, relishing the feeling, as she spoke again. “I had always thought... you were a dream. Maybe a vision, at most...”

“But I am here, right now, with you.” With a touch to her chin, he turned her face to him, that their eyes might meet, that she might see his sincerity, his desperation, even as it was laced in his pleas. “I do not know what force brought us together, the first time or this, but I would give you the world just to have your heart as you have mine.”

Her fingers touched his lips, tracing the curve, her eyes moving from them to his gaze.

“In my heart,” she sighed, “I know I cannot escape you. That the sight of you sends shivers down my spine, an ache in my body and my soul. If I had known...”

He smiled at her, smiled at her as a man smiled at his lover on the day of their wedding, the day a beloved child is born from a woman loved by her spouse, sheer joy and relief in his gaze. Mariya gazed up at him with awe, the sincerity and depth of his emotions for her to read so clearly, like the brightest stars on the clearest night skies. Aymeric was a man of many gifts and titles, but if there was one truth to him, one singular defining trait, is that he was a man whose passions knew no bounds.

It was Mariya, this time, that touched her lips to his first, kissing his lips as her eyes fluttered close. It was all Aymeric had ever wanted and he pulled her into his arms, lifting the shorter woman from her feet, breaking their contact only to carry her properly, bringing her to the large bed he had slept in while in Camp Dragonhead. All the while, she placed kisses gentle but urgent, against his cheek and down his neck, her dainty fingers combing through the dark hair at the nape of his neck.

Pulling away from her, Aymeric gazed at his angel, his beloved. In a singular moment of clarity, he whispered a silent prayer.

_Forgive me, friend. As is the father, so is the son._

As it came, it was gone, and Aymeric’s eyes lingered on the woman in his bed, seeing again in both his memory and in front of him. With dextrous fingers and years of habit, he pulled his cloak and all the trapping of his armor from him, belts and buckles slipping open, everything dropping with the ringing of metal against stone. And, with each movement, his angel’s eyes never left him, watched him as if seeing a vision from the gods.

This time, Aymeric was more gentle, more patient, even as he had to force his hands from ripping the clothes from Mariya’s body, his body aching to bury himself in the smell of her, the feel of her, the warmth of his skin on hers. Even as he worked buttons and clasps free, his lips kissed skin, the dip of her throat, the hollow point between her collarbones, every inch of flesh that revealed itself as he pulled her free from the fabric that kept her skin from his, his tongue dragging between the valley of her breasts.

It was better than his memory, his fantasies, for he knew it was real, that his angel was but flesh and blood in his hands, the heat radiating from her enough to melt all the ice of Coerthas, the coolness of his composure. Her fingers brushed the hair from his eyes, lingering at the space below his ear, the smallest touch as reverent as his thousands of kisses.

Finally, bare skin against bare skin. He gathered her breasts in his hands, perfect handfuls, his thumbs making circles on taut nipples. She moaned in his mouth, the slightest shudder sending electricity into his very veins. That such a strong and powerful woman, gifted with the strength of the very heavens, could be but clay in his hands was a heady and powerful elixir. And, even if the gods were to strike him down, he wanted to relish every second of it. To see her bend to his will and his wants.

A growl came from his throat, and he bit at her neck, eliciting a sharp gasp, sucking on the skin hard so that it might bruise, a bruise for all to see. His hand slipped between her legs, finding her wet with desire, so very wet, his fingers sliding like water upon the rocks. He breathed into her neck as she shuddered, small little gasps and heavy breaths from her lips, as his fingers dipped in and out of her, made oh so very slow circles around the most sensitive of flesh.

When he pulled back, she pouted at him, even as his hand remained between her thighs, his touch slowing just a touch. And, from the dark places in his heart, a smile formed on his lips, his eyes heavy with lust.

“Oh, have you forgotten?” he asked, a snarl as he pressed two fingers deep into her. “Forgotten how much I enjoy it when you beg...?”

The invincible innocence in her eyes, the blush in her cheeks, made him toy with her more. This, this he could control. The gaze in her eyes, the parting of her lips, it was but the one piece of his life that he had complete and utter control. And that, to him, made all the injustices and responsibilities thrust upon him worth everything he had ever given, to Ishgard, to his father, to the family whose name he bore. Just to have this woman, his angel from lands so far away, met in a dream of desperation, bend to his slightest touch.

Her pouting gave way to gasps and soft little cries.

“Please, please,” she breathed out, as if she might be drowning, drowning in Aymeric de Borel’s need for her. “Please don’t tease me...”

He smiled wider.

“Is that how you ask?” He chuckled, relief in her handing him control, of indulging him. “My sweet girl, you know better than that...”

Her face was crimson, eyes under lashes gazing up at him.

“Please, lord master...” Her eyes shut, her whole body shaking. “Please, make love to me, lord master...”

He kissed her cheek, soft and warm, heat from his breath against her ear.

“See, tis not so hard, is it?” He dragged his teeth against her neck. “My love, my angel... my beautiful slave...”

With strength and speed, he flipped her onto her stomach, fingers rough as they pushed into her, feeling her tighten around them, his free hand on the small of her back. With all the pent up frustration of so many years, he worked her furiously, unrelenting as the wind and snow outside. It was but a moment before she screamed into a pillow, grasping tight fistfuls of cotton in her hands.

Aymeric smiled, leaning back to sit, touching his fingers to his lips, tasting her against his tongue. Sweet and salty and everything he had hoped for and more. His own ache, however, painfully reminded him of his own needs.

With a firm but not too rough touch, he pulled her to her knees, one of his pushing her legs wide open as he teased her with his sex, letting it slide against the lips of her opening. She shuddered, hands desperate to hold onto him, grabbing his arms as he slipped his fingers, the fingers that tasted of her, into her open mouth.

“Please, my lord,” she begged oh so sweetly, all breath as her body shivered. “Please...”

“Please, what?” He whispered into her ear, his tongue darting against her earlobe, dragging down her neck.

“Please make me yours, my lord, my love, my lord master...”

Oh, the sound of her voice at those words. Aymeric thought he might die then and there.

It was an interesting angle. Positioning himself, he brought her down, her thighs spread across his lap as he pushed into her, the feel of her so very exquisite and all too familiar. One arm draped across her stomach, his other hand muffling her loud moans, he used his strength to push up as he brought her hips to meet his, building a rhythm that was intoxicating. In a brief moment of lucidity, he wished he had a mirror, if only to see what her face looked like as he made love to her, the way her body looked as he moved inside her.

Perhaps, he smiled, another time.

Instead, he slid the hand around her waist down her abdomen and between her legs, finding that oh so sensitive spot given to all women. Barely a touch and she screamed into his hand, her body tightening around him. Beneath a growl, he smiled, biting again at her neck as his fingers worked their magic between her legs, all the while continuing to thrust into the warmth of her most sacred place.

Her body made lewd sounds, a symphony to his ears, her body awash with pleasure with proof in the waterfall between her legs. She came, rapidly and repeatedly, crying out muffled screams, until she collapsed against him, barely conscious. For a brief moment, Aymeric just held her close, kissing her shoulder with adoration on his lips.

He knew he only pretended at power over her, that she had no true obligation to him, so many years between that night in a forest he had never stepped foot in. And so, he held her close, her back against his chest, their breathing matching breath for breath. In a rare moment of weakness, he felt himself weep, tears dropping on her warm skin.

What a fool he was, he thought. He had wanted to destroy her and now he wished for her to love him. When he had felt anger and indignation at the slights from those who would judge him, he felt guilt and sorrow at what he had done to a girl so innocent, so long ago. How could she ever feel for him what he knew he had felt for her since he heard his name on her lips.

He felt her shift in his arms, sitting on his lap, as her hands touched either side of his face, bringing him to look up at her.

By the Fury, she truly was a being of the divine.

In her eyes was a kindness Aymeric had not expected. She smiled at him, its brightness touching her eyes. He sighed as her lips touched his temple, a kiss to each side, before the most tender of touches to his lips, hers against his. He felt a smile lift the corners of his mouth, her arms wrapped around his neck as he brought his arms around her, breathing her in as he buried his face in her neck.

“Thank you,” he sighed, pale blue eyes opening as he gathered his thoughts, the feel of Mariya, his divine made real, in his arms. “Thank you for seeing me as I am and not what the world would make of me.”

She ran her slender fingers through his hair, curling her fingers at the locks at the back of his neck.

“To you, the same,” her voice came, soft and gentle. “Thank you, Aymeric.”

He held her tighter then, his whole body against hers. In the quiet of the night, he pulled away to look into her eyes, a faint line between his brows, one finger brushing the hair from her cheek, his touch lingering for several moments.

“I beg of you, please stay.” Never had he shown this side to anyone, not a soul. No one but her. “Let me wake and know that this is not another dream... please...”

Her eyes held his for what felt like forever, golden irises gazing into his very soul. She glanced up and brushed her fingers against his hairline, pushing his hair to the side. The silence tore at him, his mind turning to prayer for her to just allow him another indulgence. She had gone from just a girl, to a woman, to an angel, to divinity incarnate, but, at the end, she was a woman he simply loved. If he but ask her, he would give everything and anything to just be by her side...

But she would never. He knew this, knew she would never ask him to leave his home, Ishgard, or his people, just for her sake. And yet, she would deny another man’s affections at his behest. Aymeric knew not why he deserved such a gift from the heavens, from Halone herself.

One day, though, he swore he would do his damnedest to prove himself to her, his love, his Mariya. She was the Warrior of Light to all else; but to him, a woman he but met in his dreams, who taught him love, a woman he needed to prove (to himself or to her?) he deserved.

“I will stay,” she sighed long, dreamy. “If only because I am too tired to make it back to my own quarters.”

He laughed, finally, a full and truly happy laugh. And for once in several, several years, he slept in peace, his arms around a woman petite and powerful, holding her close as she dreamt alongside him. As he drifted to dreamless sleep, he wondered at the perfection of their bodies entwined, the way his Mariya fit just so right next to him. Perhaps his fate was not so cursed, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments/thoughts/suggestions are much appreciated. I promise there will be fluff incoming!
> 
> I mean, come on, Aymeric is all fluff in the game. I love that everyone is always "why is he so freaking earnest all the time?"


	3. A Long Day's Journey Into Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aymeric finally gets his head on his shoulders. No smut in this chapter, thankfully (?).
> 
> Here there be angst and fluff, good friends, confessions, and SPOILERS.
> 
> Spoilers for Heavensward (like whoa) and Patch 4.1 (if you squint).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haurchefant, blessed pure soul... If you haven't played through the Vault in HW, I would suggest doing that before reading this chapter. Trust me, you'll really, really need to.
> 
> To all others traumatized by THAT scene (you know the one), forgive me for bringing back such sad memories. I totally feel you. I cry watching it every time. D:

She had been in Ishgard for about a month, Aymeric considered, glancing at his desk for the solar tables. Mariya, full name Mariya Lugria, known to the realm as the Warrior of Light. At Haurchefant’s request, through Count Edmont de Fortemps, Aymeric had gone to the Archbishop to allow “the Warrior of Light and two of her fellows in the Scions of the Seventh Dawn entrance into the Holy See of Ishgard”, as Aymeric had put it, two bastard sons asking their fathers for an asylum for friends and loved ones. Watching as Mariya, Alphinaud, and Tataru left the Lord Commander’s office--Aymeric’s eyes always lingering on his would-be beloved, she who single-handedly saved Ishgard (his very home!) at the Steps of Faith not so long ago---it was a truth hard to believe. And oh so hard on his nerves.

Haurchefant sighed, standing to the side of the Lord Commander’s desk, and Aymeric’s pale blue eyes glanced to the man. There was a soft smile on the man’s lips, even as Aymeric kept his features (hopefully) unreadable. He did not get to his station, after all, on martial strength alone. And yet, he couldn’t help but envy the simple nature of the man, that he was as free as any bastard son in Ishgard, perhaps even better. At least he had a father who actually gave a damn.

“If I didn’t know any better, Lord Haurchefant,” Aymeric began, his hands resting in his lap. “I would say you might be in love.”

Haurchefant laughed. He had always been a man who wore his heart on his sleeve. Aymeric could not help but smile, though inwardly there was a pang of guilt... but also curiosity. Maybe even a touch of jealousy.

“My friend,” Haurchefant shook his head. “It is not I alone who is in love with the great Warrior of Light...”

Their eyes met, blue against blue, and for a second, Aymeric felt an urge to beg forgiveness, that he had not meant it as a slight.

But he didn’t. Instead, Aymeric pretended to pick up a report on his desk and glance through the words on the paper.

“Oh? Do go on.”

“My friend,” Haurchefant sighed, stepping to stand in front of his desk, as if he were but another soldier. When Aymeric looked, there was only a smile on his friend’s lips, a gentle gaze. _Halone forgive me_ , Aymeric thought. “I am no fool and we have known each other for some time, have we not?”

Aymeric shut his eyes, leaning back in his chair.

“Forgive me, I...”

Haurchefant, blessed Haurchefant, waved a hand to dismiss his words.

“There is nothing to forgive,” the silver-haired Elezen bowed with his words. “I saw the way your eyes met that first meeting. If she so chooses you, then who am I to judge?”

Aymeric stood, his steely expression gone as his eyes pleaded with his friend.

“Haurchefant, please...”

The Knight of the Silver Fuller gave a wide grin to Aymeric, raising a gloved finger in the air.

“Ah, you misunderstand,” he all but laughed, his smile touching his eyes along with the light in the room. “I have no intentions of giving up. At least, not without a fight. A fight between friends.”

In those words, in those simple sentences, Aymeric felt he knew who was truly the better man, but he could not concede, not on this, not when he was just so close, when _she_ was so close... Haurchefant’s pleasant laugh cut through his thoughts and Aymeric could only smile, resigned to his friend’s enthusiasm. Leave it to Haurchefant Greystone to make the best out of everything.

“You are simply incapable of being unkind, aren’t you?” Aymeric laughed, though his was softer, quieter.

“Perhaps,” Haurchefant chuckled, all smiles. After a second, he gave another grin to Aymeric. “Though, you might consider it is not just the two of us who would fight for her hand...”

One dark, sculpted brow rose, Aymeric folding his arms with the silent question. Haurchefant waved with another bow, as theatrical as he usually was, before turning halfway, gazing at the space where Mariya once stood, the doors she had just left from. His smile softened and, Aymeric wondered, if there was just a hint of melancholy.

“No,” Haurchefant chuckled, soft. “I do believe our dear friend Ser Estinien is a bit more taciturn than usual around her, but yet oddly earnest.”

Aymeric touched the tips of his fingers to his temple, gritting his teeth.

“There must be some disease among us,” Aymeric stated, even as he breathed out the starts of what might be laughter. “Who would know that Ishgardian Elezen men would have such a weakness towards one Hyur woman?”

“One very singular Hyur woman,” Haurchefant stated, his smile brilliant. “Need I remind you of all her titles and recognitions?”

Aymeric shut his eyes shaking his head.

“No, not at all. But that is not what either of us mean, is it?”

And, for once, Haurchefant Greystone, ever the one for enthusiasm, said nothing, his eyes seeming to see some vision before him. Aymeric gazed at that expression in his friend, his dear friend, and he realized that there were not enough apologies he could ever say to the other man that might free the dark-haired Elezen of his guilt. No wonder he was the bastard son of an archbishop, he thought; only a man obsessed with shame could bear a son who wallowed in the same.

Haurchefant bid a farewell and Aymeric watched him leave. So much did he want to say, but knew it would do nothing. For what could he say? That they met in a dream before she had come to Eorzea and he would lay claim on her for that? It sounded preposterous to him, even if he had lived it, did live the truth of it. How could he explain to anyone what he could not fully understand himself?

And so, he sat in his chair, silent as his friend exited his office. Ser Aymeric, Lord Commander of the Temple Knights... and a man who forsook friendships for what he could only describe as an obsession, an all-consuming and disastrous affection for a single woman by whose very nature attracted everyone around her. What a poor sod he was, he thought, closing his eyes. Even still, though, he could smell her hair, taste her skin on his lips.

By the Fury, he wanted her so much at times he forgot all sense.

Yet, he could not simply waltz up to the Fortemps Manor and request her attention. No, no, that would not do. How could he explain such a brazen act if he could not very well explain how he, a man who had never left Ishgard for long outside diplomatic duties, knew the Warrior of Light, who was not from Eorzea at all. His Mariya. Though, he sometimes did wonder if he knew her as well as he thought.

From where did she hail? What was the name of that forest from so long ago that they had been so intimate in? Who was she before all the trappings of titles and heroism?

Lost in thought, Aymeric stared at the papers on his desk, his arms folded, unable to read or think of whatever task he had meant to complete that night. Images flitted through his mind like the pages of a book, the way his lover’s hair fell beneath her when he was above her, the soft blush of her cheeks, starlight reflected in her gold eyes. The feel of her hands against his skin. The heat of her body as she pressed against him.

Aymeric pinched the bridge of his nose. What sort of man was he that he delved straight into the physical when it came to her, his Mariya, Warrior of Light to all but him?

When he closed his eyes, though, his inner vision lingered on one memory, one sight: the sweetness of her gaze--the boundless fount of forgiveness, her unlimited kindness--smiling up at him when he but glanced her way. Just to see her smile at him again, he wondered if he might suffer all of each of the Seven Hells. Nay, he thought, he would probably do more.

A knock came to the door and Aymeric looked up, effortlessly regaining the cool composure he was so well-known for.

“Come in,” Aymeric called out, his eyes focusing on his door, anything to get his mind off of Mariya.

But there she was. Striding (unaccompanied) back into his office, the softest smile across her lips.

“Ser Aymeric,” she said with her characteristic nod.

“Lady Mariya,” he replied, standing. Finally, he retained at least _some_ of his wits. “I did not expect you to return so soon. Is there aught amiss?”

Her eyes drifted to the side, her mind obviously in thought. Seconds passed and she looked back to Aymeric, the candlelight reflecting in her eyes and setting a warm glow (nay, halo) around her face.

His blessed angel of Halone.

“... What are we?” she asked, her voice soft. “To each other?”

Aymeric blinked, surprised to hear the words. Then again, he thought, he knew he did not quite know himself. All he knew was...

“Surely you must know...” he began, his eyes all but pleading with her. “I...”

“Please, do not say it,” she sighed, a glimmer of tears in her eyes as she touched a hand to her heart. “How can you be so sure, even, that you... feel that way? Everyone... everyone asks of me to do what must be done, but never do they ask who I am, what I may need, what I hope for...”

Aymeric let his guard down, the implacable politician in him dissolving as his eyebrows raised, concern deeply etched in his gaze. He walked around his desk, going to his beloved, a touch to her chin so that she may look at him. This guilt was quite different than what he had felt before, but behind that was a longing, not of the physical (for once), but for one woman’s happiness.

“I will hear it, if you will allow me,” he stated, just a touch above a whisper. “I will hear all of your story, your wishes and desires... as you have heard mine so many times. Whatever you may need, I will do my damnedest to give it, give all of it, to you.”

Her eyes looked up to him, something of surprise but also... gratitude. Aymeric smiled at that, smiled a smile not born out of necessity or even desire, but of an unguarded heart. And, like that, she melted into his arms, he draping the cloth around his armor around her, a ghost of a kiss to her hairline. She felt so warm, so very right, in his arms, her hands holding on to him.

He knew by the shaking in her body, her small shoulders rising and lowering, that she was crying. Even though she made no noise, he knew. Yet, he simply held her closer, tighter. In his heart, Aymeric knew the Warrior of Light lived with a mask of stoicism, of unending bravery. After all, he was a man who had lived in a similar fashion for so long. He knew the toll it took on one’s spirit, one’s heart.

Mariya’s hands wiped at her eyes, though she made no effort to pull away. At least he could give this small comfort, Aymeric thought, though it was not enough. Never enough. But it was a start.

“I have no home,” she said, her voice for his ears only. “Once this is all over, if it ever is, my home country will still be lost, buried under rubble and death...”

Aymeric touched a hand to her hair and kissed the top of it, touching her cheek to his heart.

“You will always have a home here, in Ishgard,” he spoke with all the earnestness he could muster, the strength of his feelings surprising even him. “Whether with me or those in House Fortemps, you will always have a home to return to. This I swear... but I know it must hurt, to have lost so much and then being tasked with even more here...”

“More than anyone knows,” she began, pulling his arms around her as tight as might be comfortable. “Aside from you, now.”

“And you can tell me everything and anything, if it would but help you. ‘Tis the least I can do.”

They retired to another room, one where they could sit in relative comfort. He called for wine and they spoke long into the night, sharing their pasts with each other, though Aymeric listened more than he spoke. He learned that she was born in Ilsabard, a country that the Garlean Empire had taken decades before she was even born, her parents resistance fighters that died soon after her birth at the hands of the conquerors. Raised by her grandmother in an empty temple turned into a makeshift fort, she left Ilsabard for Eorzea when the empire had found its location, a siege coming for her and her fellows, forced onto a boat even as she begged to die with her friends, her loved ones. She was but eighteen summers old and yet she already knew the pain of crushing loss.

It was truly a wonder that she was so kind in the end, helping everyone and anyone, friend to beastmen and man alike. Bearing the burdens of Eorzea without so much as a moment of rest and then being claimed a murderer of a friend, villainized so easily when all she had done was try to be there to help.

Aymeric had, at that moment, wished he had stayed in Ul’dah that night of the banquet, that he could have been there to protect her. That he could have done anything to help his love, even as she lost contact with so many who would call her family. He wished, so much, that he had done more for her.

And he told her as much.

With the warm glow of fire flickering in her eyes, she gazed up at him, smiling with such gentle sweetness. It was at that moment, that singular moment, that he decided to devote his life to her, that he would bring peace to his people and, with hope, be free to journey with this woman who would be the light of Eorzea, defender of its people... so that he may at least be given the chance to protect her.

But, when it came time, it was not him that protected her...

Haurchefant, in the end, died for her, died in Aymeric’s arms while the man asked for but one smile to ease him into the Halls of Halone at the very top of the once so holy Vault. The killing blow that had been meant for Mariya was taken, instead, by Haurchefant Greystone. The killing blow ordered by Aymeric’s own father.

And never had Aymeric seen the Warrior of Light so destroyed, Mariya openly weeping as she held Haurchefant’s hand, even long after he had passed. Remaining at the spot even when Haurchefant’s body was taken away, tears so plain in her eyes.

What a fool had Aymeric de Borel been, to think he could reason with the man who sired him. Had he hoped that, in the end, perhaps his father cared more than he showed...?

In that singular decision, Aymeric had hurt Mariya more than he knew anyone else had. How could she ever forgive him? Did he even deserve it?

It took Estinien and Lucia holding him down for him to not run out of the infirmary that night. He needed... he needed to see Mariya, to comfort her as he knew she was already setting out again to save Ishgard, holding back the crushing despair so that she may serve Eorzea once again, save Ishgard from its own people...

Aymeric lost all sense of pride that night, tears slipping from shut eyes as Lucia and Estinien waited on him. When he looked on them, his dear friends, he knew from their shocked faces that they had not expected it from him, his openness.

And he told them everything. He told them of all his hidden fears, of all his guilt, of everything he had hoped for, of how much he truly loved Mariya, only for everything to be ruined in a single moment. That he could never, ever be as brave or as giving as Haurchefant. That it should have been him in Haurchefant’s stead...

Estinien gazed at him for a long moment, he knew, and then took off his helmet so that they met eye to eye, the seriousness in the glint of Aymeric’s old friend’s blue eyes.

“Do not dwell on the past,” Estinien stated, his voice determined. “Do what must be done, as Haurchefant did... not wallow in regret and shame. If you truly care, then stop being such a daft fool and rest so that you wake up strong enough to do your godsdamn duty, to your people and to _her_.”

Lucia, sweet Lucia, smiled and gave a nod.

“Fear not, Lord Commander,” she stated, kindness and devotion in her green eyes. “We will act in your stead until your wounds have healed.”

Aymeric gazed at his friends, gratitude washing over his every feature.

“Thank you, my friends,” he said, a glimpse of a smile on his lips. “I do not deserve such kindness, but I am full glad that you remain steadfast.”

“So will she,” Estinien replied, his voice a touch softer than it ever had been in all their years of knowing each other. “I have no doubt that, in the end, Mariya will do everything in her power to see your dreams become reality. For you and for Haurchefant.”

“I just hope,” the dark-haired Elezen began, sadness threatening to overcome him yet again, “that I might one day deserve what she does for me, for all of us, for Ishgard and all the rest.”

“Perhaps one day.” Estinien smiled, shaking his head. “Now rest, you bloody idiot, so you can start your work on that very hope. Hold fast to it, your promises, and anything is possible.”

Lucia, a smile touching her eyes, bowed her head in agreement.

“Lord Commander, you are not a man to give up hope so easily,” she stated. “It is a dark night tonight, but I believe in you as I am sure the Warrior of Light--nay, Lady Mariya--does. Now rest, my lord. There is much we have to do once dawn breaks.”

“Of course, of course,” Aymeric stated, his eyes shutting as he saw a clear path, a clear path to hope and also for redemption. “Thank you again, my friends. Thank you for everything.”

And with smiles from his friends as they departed his side, the Lord Commander of the Temple Knights finally sought rest, falling into dreamless sleep, feeling his determined spirit returning. He would do everything in his power to deserve the trust and sacrifice his friends gave him, of the devotion of a woman who gave him and his country her all. To prove to all and all that ever might be, that he was a man who could protect the ones he loved.

It was not enough, but it was, at least, a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, updates should be about once per week after this. I will try to keep at it, but I hope you can be patient with me!
> 
> Thank you, as always, for reading. Your comments/thoughts/suggestions are also greatly appreciated!
> 
> Until next time, my friends.


	4. To Start Anew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aymeric tries to do his part, for love and country, becoming more of the man he wants to be.
> 
> As always, HW spoilers like crazy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, sorry about the delay. I had this written a few days ago, but my I've been grinding in FFXIV to catch up with my FC-mates.
> 
> Anyway, I hope this doesn't seem too rushed. We're moving at lightning speeds, my friends...
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy! Any comments/suggestions/etc are greatly appreciated.

That people--whether the people of Ishgard, the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, or even his friends--began to see more and more of Aymeric’s true colors, less of the calm and collected (and cold) politician and more of a man of great passion, it bothered him not. In fact, it seemed only to add more to the trust others placed in him. In what he once thought as weakness, people saw a man who cared deeply for his people, whose fire was one that people could rally behind. Most importantly, though, he felt free, free to be who he truly was.

And yet, as his heart was want to ask these days: what of the Warrior of Light?

Always moving with purpose, always shouldering the greatest of burdens, Aymeric could only watch in dismay as Mariya put up her mask, the only hint of it in the light no longer reaching her eyes. In the intervening time from the Vault and the Treaty between Dravania and Ishgard, he knew she had lost much: Haurchefant, Ysayle, even perhaps Estinien, nevermind those Aymeric had never met: a woman named Minfilia and others she had yet to name. And still, she strove ever forward, determined and (he thought) a touch broken.

It hurt him that she did not seek him out for comfort, that he might at least ease her suffering if only for a moment. No, as soon as she would arrive back in Ishgard, the Scions would set a plan and off she would go again. He wondered, truly, if she ever slept. If she ever had a moment to herself.

So, when the opportunity arose that Aymeric could do more than just sign papers and make speeches, he took it. He would plead the case of Ishgard to the great Hraesvelgr, the Warrior of Light and Alphinaud Leveilleur at his side to guide him there.

What he did not expect, however, was the great beauty he saw in Dravania and the Churning Mists, of the gentility of Vidofnir who bid them past Sohm Al, of kindness when he expected none. It was in the Churning Mists, the vistas that deserved only the greatest awe, that Aymeric could not hold his thoughts back, the skies filled with stars so very bright. Against his better judgment, he asked for a moment in the ruins of a courtyard that stood beneath the wonders of the place called Zenith.

A campfire prepared, Mariya prepared a small meal of what roots and vegetables they could find, Alphinaud gathering wood for the fire. In the two of them, there was a melancholy as they gazed at the fire, silence thick with unspoken emotions. Alphinaud asked to take his leave long before he was truly tired, his exhaustion so obviously not from the exertion of walking all the way from Ishgard to the Churning Mists. Mariya watched Alphinaud retire into their small tent, her eyes ever discerning, the barest hint of concern laced in the crease between her brows.

At the young Elezen’s departure, Aymeric sat down close to Mariya.

“Pray, tell me your thoughts,” he asked in the quiet.

There was a long sigh as her eyes shut.

“This was a place of a happy memory not so long ago.” She took in a breath and he could see her shoulders shake. “Alphinaud, Ysayle, Estinien, myself... just a brief moment of peace and friendship, of grudges lessened and moments of hope.”

She gazed at the palm of her hand, gloved as it were by leather and steel.

“But Ysayle is gone...” Tears fell from her eyes. “Gave her life to save ours, only for Estinien to be... If I had only... If I had been brave enough to stop him...”

“Mariya...” Aymeric reached out a hand, a soft touch to the nape of her neck, as she fell into him, more and more tears spilling even as she held back the sound of her cries. She did not, Aymeric knew, want Alphinaud to see her like this, Alphinaud who looked up to her and saw a hero that he could rely on, an older sister that would guide and protect him, a woman in whom he placed all his faith.

“I did not want this,” she sobbed into the blue and gold fabric around Aymeric’s armor, “I did not want the people I love to sacrifice themselves for my sake... How can I be called a hero when the very people around me... people I love and care for... all... die...”

Aymeric felt her sorrow in himself, felt it to his core. Part of him blamed himself, for asking for her help time and time again. But, as a friend said to him, he needed not to dwell on the past, of what he could and could not do, of what should or could have been. So, he pulled Mariya into his arms, his beloved in his lap as he cradled her, holding her close as he cooed softly into her ear, his fingers combing through her hair.

He knew then, why she had kept her distance, why she nearly refused his invitation for just a simple drink.

Always for the sake of others. Always for his sake. She would live in solitude if it meant the safety of her loved ones.

“It is not fair to you, my love,” he said as he placed a kiss to her hairline, “that you should bear the burdens of an entire continent, nevermind the nation of Ishgard. And... for that, for what you have lost on my behalf and my people... forgive me. Forgive my selfishness from the moment we ever met, my ignorance to the suffering you have carried all this time. I do not know how I can truly ever repay you for what you have done, what you continue to do, how anyone ever can... but I would do anything, anything at all, so that you might know some measure of peace.”

“Thank you,” she said, half muffled between the fabric and her stifled cries. “I do not know why you care for me, but I am... grateful. Even from the beginning, I knew that you were a kind soul. If it was to ease whatever pain you had, I would give it... then... and now.”

Aymeric felt shame wash over him. He had not been himself then, nor even that time in Camp Dragonhead... and yet...

“I do not deserve your trust... or your affection,” he stated, convinced of the words. “What I nearly did to you, what I have asked of you, of what I have costed you... I find that I deserve no more than the Seven Hells, much less your kindness.”

Mariya sighed, her fingers tracing the intricate embellishments of blue and gold on the fabric around his armor.

“In you, I see someone who understands me. Who regrets what they ask of me, rather than simply taking it for granted that I will never complain. Someone who sees me and thinks not of the title given to me, but a girl who is as weak as she is strong, a girl who was but a maiden seeing a vision of an all too real dark-haired angel in a forest of Zeltennia...”

Part of him smiled. To hear her think of him, especially then, like that--it was strange considering how much regret he carried over it even as it nearly consumed him.

“I apologize,” he half laughed with an exhale of breath, “for being so rough with you. Then. I was not... quite... in my right mind...”

He could feel her smile, even over the plate of his armor.

“I could see adoration in your eyes, though,” she said, a soft chuckle bubbling from within her. “I remembered your eyes the most, the blue that was... is... as clear as a cloudless summer sky. I am not sure how I knew your name, but something in me told me that you did not truly mean me harm. In fact... I thought it was nice... to forget about everything else but the feel... of you... ”

He felt the blood surge in his cheeks, his face warm. He was not a man to blush, but so he did, at that moment. It was strange, he thought, that they had hardly spoken of that random (if not providential) encounter in the forest half a decade or so ago. There were so many questions of how that had happened, how that came to be, but if it were not for that, would Aymeric have had the strength to know her as he did now? Or would he too stay in awe of the figure, heedless to the needs of the woman beneath the title?

Do not dwell on the past, his mind said. Move forward.

Start anew.

Pale blue eyes gazed up at the stars for a moment. Such perfect wonder, magic all around them, even as vicious beasts lurked just beyond a hill. He felt the smile across his lips long after it appeared, only to look down to see his beloved Mariya gazing up at him with, at the moment, happiness and--dare he say it--the beginnings of what might be love.

Maybe, for a moment, he could help her forget, forget all the pain and suffering, of the unending conflict that swirled around her, ever pulling her to and fro.

“Would you like it,” he asked, his breath feeling somehow shallow, his tongue across his lips as their eyes met, “if I were to try to... help... tonight?”

Her gold eyes reflected the awe in his, the beauty of the Churning Mists. She touched a hand to his cheek, a touch cold from the wind, but warm enough to make him sigh. By her hand, he drifted towards her, his eyes closing as his lips found hers, gentle at first until she returned his kiss. In a moment, his need for her returned with such strength that he did not bother removing much of anything except that which would let him join with her, body and soul.

Pulling her legging from her hips, boots removed easily enough, he pressed a hand between her thighs, fingers dancing across soft and ever so wet flesh. She gasped just as he placed his mouth over hers again, determined as he was to give her whatever he could at this moment, whether it was joy and love or simply a moment to forget all that life had costed her. His teeth bit lightly on her earlobe between kisses down her cheek and neck, her body shuddering as she covered her sweet lips with her hand. In the corner of his pale blue eyes, he saw what he believed even the beautiful vistas of the Churning Mists could not compare to, his beloved gorgeous as she gave in, gave up control.

Aymeric shut his eyes, concentrating on the feel of her body pulsing around his fingers, digits sliding in and out of her as she arched her back, slick skin pressing and rubbing against her most sensitive places.

“By the Fury,” he whispered, hot, into her ear. “If I am an angel to you, then to me you are a goddess, Halone in flesh and blood...”

Their eyes met again, briefly, and Aymeric could not help but smile at Mariya, her eyelashes fluttering as she pouted at him, her arms around his neck as he slowed his touch, her lips just a touch swollen from his kisses. So lovely, so beautiful--he touched a hand to her cheek, kissing her hairline with reverence, whispers of how he loved her, how much he could never want anyone else, never wanted to be apart from her.

Her legs clasped around his waist, they joined again, he entering her a bit less gentle than he initially intended. She gasped loudly, muffled only by her hand over her mouth, their bodies beginning to rock against one another, Aymeric holding on to her hips as he moved inside her. She felt so good, so right to him, her sacred place holding him inside of her like no one ever had before or since he had met her, pleasure akin to (he thought) divine ecstasy, so immeasurable that he all but forgot that they were on the grass in a place held by dragons, nothing in his thoughts but this moment, of their bodies finding their rhythm together with such ease. Such perfection.

For once, he was a bit more grateful than usual for his decorated armor, the draping cloth hiding their joined bodies. And, in a way, it made him happy, as if she was but for him only, as if the sight of her so open and so vulnerable were for only him to see. Not that, he wanted to laugh, anyone wouldn’t be able to tell exactly what they were doing under the trappings of his armor.

She shuddered underneath him and, immediately, he forgot all about discretion or decency, her hips bucking to meet him as she pulled him down so that his very lips would stifle her cries of pleasure. Breathless, she pulled away, Aymeric touching his forehead to hers, his hands still on her hips as he helped her to meet his again and again and again. Time no longer mattered, not to Aymeric de Borel, not to the man who only had to reach out and touch all he had ever wanted in life.

With a hiss, he spilled his seed into her, deep into her, her body clasping around him like a vice as she held onto him tightly. He would have collapsed on her, if he had not remembered that he still wore most of his armor, rolling onto his back and pulling her with him, so that she may lay atop of him, her ear to his heart. Gazing at the sky, he smiled, pulling the blue and gold fabric around her again, holding her close, his lips to her hair. He could see the hints of a sunrise, making him laugh ever so softly.

For a moment, he felt as if he could fight any war--fight any demon or dragon or what-have-you--and succeed, newfound strength and conviction in the woman in his arms. Yes, he would give anything... anything for this very second to last forever, the feel of her against him, of the afterglow of making love, of knowing peace in his heart and hers.

“I love you,” she whispered. So unexpected was her voice that Aymeric blinked, Mariya seeming to drift in and out of consciousness. It was no wonder, he thought, considering how little time she had to rest. “I know I have not said it before... but I love you, Aymeric, son of Ishgard...”

“And I, you,” he replied, sighing with a joy he did not know he could feel. But he knew... He shut his eyes and, wrapping his arms ever tighter around his beloved, he whispered: “I know tomorrow shall continue the fighting, but for now, let me memorize this moment, so that I may remember all that I fight for, all that I believe in...”

With a dreamy gaze, she gave her characteristic nod, the sunrise reflected in her eyes. Aymeric smiled in return, cradling her in her arms, as they fell to slumber under the eyes of gods and dragons, a moment in the heavens.

Aymeric opened his pale blue eyes to a dim afternoon, blinking as he was faced with a pom-topped moogle and Alphinaud, both staring down at him with both curiosity and, perhaps, a bit of incredulousness. He went to stand, but found himself weighed down, looking down to see the great Warrior of Light sleeping with her ear to his chest, peaceful breaths in the shallow rise and fall of her chest. At his movement, she only snuggled deeper into him, wrapping the blue and gold cloth of his armor around her as the makeshift blanket they had used that night.

There was a slight twitch in Alphinaud’s brow and he turned his eyes away, a gloved hand to his lips.

“Well, then...” Alphinaud hummed, something between a laugh and a sigh escaping his lips.

Carefully, Aymeric tried to disengage from his beloved, but the sweet girl only held onto him fast.

“Ah...” Aymeric took in a breath. It was not shame that caused his hesitation. No, he felt... unprepared, which he almost never was. “Master Alphinaud...”

The younger Elezen turned to the man, waving a hand as a smile crept over his features, his long bangs covering what Aymeric thought was a reddening in his cheeks.

“No need to apologize, Ser Aymeric... I am... but surprised.” Alphinaud shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, his smile growing wider. “I am usually much more observant to... situations, but it seems I may have lost my touch. Given everything that has happened.”

The moogle, for his part (it was a he, wasn’t it? Named Moghan?), seemed to peer long at the two lovers, Aymeric trying to gather his thoughts as his mind shook off the fog of sleep. Part of him, though, laughed. He had somehow not considered that Alphinaud would be the last to be unaware of the relationship between Mariya, the Warrior of Light, and Aymeric, son of Ishgard, Lord Commander of the Temple Knights of Ishgard.

From the low rumble of his laugh, Mariya stirred and placed a hand to his chest, rising from his side. Aymeric wondered at the cold he felt as her touch left him, the spot so empty from where she had once been. A part of him wanted to pull her back to his side, that her being anywhere but right next to him was too far for his liking... But...

Mariya gazed at him, smiling with a nod.

Yes, there was work to do.

And so it was the last moment of peace before the battle of their lives, for those they had lost, for those they could yet save. Those were Mariya’s words, when she asked for Hraesvelgr’s help in saving their friend, tears a glimmer in her eyes as she begged for the great wyrm’s help in rescuing Estinien from the demon which raged within him. The surprise in Aymeric’s eyes were for the desperation in his lover’s words, her pleas to the dragon. If it were not for her earnestness, the hope in her eyes... Aymeric thought he might have felt jealousy. Did she ever, he wonder, speak of him that way, a stoic heroine breaking the facade for someone she so obviously cared for.

A roar in the skies signaled for their return to the battlefield, to Ishgard. Their hearts set, all three returned to Ishgard to fight, Mariya riding on the wings of Hraesvelgr, her mind set on the fight before her.

As Aymeric watched his beloved stride towards Nidhogg, the shade of the dragon in the flesh of their friend Estinien, he could see the determination in the gait of her walk, never looking back, her eyes always on the task before her. All of Ishgard watched the woman, the woman who would be their savior, face the great wyrm.

And it was like a dance, deadly but beautiful. There was no restraint on either side, Mariya wielding her lance and magicks with such skill it belied belief, Nidhogg just as ferocious in his attacks. Her gold eyes concentrated on the dread wyrm, she moved with a power he could only describe as gifted by the gods themselves. Truly, she was an avatar of Halone to Aymeric and, he supposed, many of the Ishgardian knights who watched her in that deadly battle.

That, of course, was not what had surprised him. It was the ferocity of Estinien’s resolve as he subdued Nidhogg’s shade within him when Nidhogg threatened Alphinaud and Mariya, the growl in his voice as he refused to allow the hateful being to cause harm to the two. Aymeric knew, without having to see his friend’s thoughts through a gift like the Echo, that Estinien had come to the surface, pushed down Nidhogg’s all-consuming anger and rage, for the sake of two who had broken through his walled-off heart.

The way Estinien begged Mariya to end his life--Aymeric knew it was not for Ishgard Estinien would sacrifice his life, but a boy that was like a brother and a woman who was perhaps more... an equal in battle and a friend far closer than Aymeric had ever been in all the years.

Still, Aymeric could only feel relief as Mariya and Alphinaud pulled the wyrm’s eyes from Estinien, amazed as his beloved still stood after the strength it took for the deed as Alphinaud had tripped from the force. But there was work to be done and he yelled to the two Scions to throw Nidhogg’s eyes to the dark abyss of the Sea of Clouds.

Standing vigil over Estinien once they had given him to the healers, Aymeric’s mind wandered in the quiet of the night and days after. Gazing at his friend, asleep but peaceful, he wondered what the man thought, what he felt. If Mariya, the Warrior of Light, was guarded, then Estinien was far worse, playing off fragility with rudeness and sardonic wit. But Aymeric knew his old friend was a kind soul in the end, these turns to the dark only due to the weakness named kindness.

Perhaps, in this way, Aymeric de Borel and Estinien Wyrmblood were more the same than not. After all, charm was but another shield against the blade of bitterness. Different shades of the same defense, he supposed. But...

Had Haurchefant been right?

When Mariya did not come to the ceremony to mark the end of the Dragonsong War, Aymeric felt a touch wounded. His eyes scoured over the crowd even as he spoke practiced words, hoping to see her gold eyes and warm smile in the sea of Ishgardian citizens. But, she wasn’t there. Just... gone.

When he was told that Mariya was seen with Tataru and Alphinaud at Haurchefant’s grave, Aymeric thought to visit the site... but stopped himself at the door to his office. In a heartbeat, he knew he did not deserve to be there, that he would but disturb the ones who would but remember a man too good for this world. With a hand on the dark wood, Aymeric shut his eyes, a prayer in his mind.

Yet, it was an apology that escaped his lips.

“How can I ever face you, my dear friend?” Aymeric whispered. “You whose spirit lives in her forever, while I am but a shade, locked up by obligations to countrymen rather than those who give me joy, to those who I am but a sad replacement for you?”

He sighed, pressing his forehead to the cold wood.

“Forgive me, Mariya, my love, my everything. It is too easy to fall to duty than to face a world unknown. The world has condemned me to be a coward, after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid this turned out to be more of the events seen thru Aymeric's point of view, with a little relationship building. But at least Aymeric is more of the dutiful pretty Ishgardian Elezen we all know and love, right?
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	5. The Time Between (Seconds)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for the end of Heavensward, like always. Last chapter of this "part" of the series. Thank you for all the support and patience. Your comments and continued support have been the greatest for this silly writer. Much love to all of you!!!!

Aymeric had, in all intents and purposes, asked the Warrior of Light on a date. It was late, of course, his invitation, but the now Lord Speaker of the House of Lords had a rather sneaking suspicion that his beloved would not be in Ishgard for much longer. Standing at his window, languid motions of his wrist as he blew the ink dry on his “oh so simple” letter, he wondered about the time they had spent together, over the months she had been close.

The time they had shared was short, he knew. The Warrior of Light was a woman of battle and once one was over, the next would come right on its heels. Aymeric placed his forehead against the cold glass window, gazing out into the streets of the Pillars. In his mind, Estinien was standing behind him, giving him that particular “look” that bespoke his disappointment in the other Elezen, steel blue eyes silently judging the dark-haired Aymeric for his (lack of) action. For all his optimism and idealism, the Viscount of House Borel was admittedly a bit of a fool.

Days before, he had caught sight of her, the Warrior of Light, his Mariya, winding through the skies on the dreaded Midgardsormr on her way back from the Churning Mists. It had been twilight, the sun having just set over the horizon, and Aymeric had all but thrown all the proposals, reports, and letters off his desk as he made his way out of his home office. Even his head steward, an old gentleman who had served House Borel long before Aymeric had been adopted, stumbled at the speed with which Aymeric had departed his home.

He needed to see her. Wanted to speak to her. Just the two of them, even if it meant hiding in plain sight.

And there she was, hair windswept, bidding Midgardsormr a small farewell before turning...

When her golden eyes met his, his pale sky blue, her eyebrows rose in surprise. And yet, a smile crept across her lips, widening to something very warm and kind. He didn’t deserve it, he thought, but it lifted all the worries in his heart, the relief he had needed but did not know easing the tension in every muscle in his body. Aymeric knew, very much, that he loved her... but he also desperately needed her; not just physically, but in love and... forgiveness.

She was the Saviour of Ishgard... and a personal messiah to the Lord Commander of the Temple Knights.

Mariya stood there, smiling at him, and Aymeric closed the space between them. Heeding the all-watching eyes of Ishgardian nobility, he stood far enough to at least pretend at a more respectable relationship, even as he yearned to just sweep her into his arms and place a thousand kisses on her cheeks, brows, lips. Gravity pulled him towards her, but he kept his distance... just watching her as she made a few more steps.

“Ser Aymeric,” she stated, her smile reaching her eyes, an image he had not seen for what felt like weeks. “What are you doing here?”

He noticed her hair had grown a touch. No longer did it fall just to her chin, it now was just past her shoulders. How time flies, Aymeric noted in silence.

Aymeric folded his arms, if only to keep himself from reaching for her, to run his fingers through her hair again, to feel her skin against his...

“... Welcome home, Mariya,” he stated after airing an excuse for his greeting, his voice soft. There was a long pause, eyes gazing at each other. If only, he thought, he could... 

Though he had not intended to broach the subject, Aymeric told her of his new duties, as the Speaker of the House of Lords, of the permanence of the position. By the way her smile receded, just a touch, he knew she understood his hidden meaning... of what it meant. Never in his life had Aymeric thought it would be him, confronted with choosing the girl of his dreams, that would tell the other of their imminent parting.

As if to lessen the blow, he ended his short diatribe with news of Estinien’s “escape” from the infirmary. If nothing else, at least she smiled at that. Like two sides of a coin, Estinien had always been Aymeric’s opposite and yet always in a way that Aymeric had... envied.

“... Thank you, Mariya. And please, convey my warmest regards to Master Alphinaud.”

He turned, even as it hurt his very soul, and began to walk away. Back into what he knew, back into a city, a nation, that needed his undivided attention.

And then, a hand on his cloak stopped him, a firm grasp on the gilded cloth.

“Wait,” came Mariya’s voice, barely above a whisper. “Is that it, then...? Is this how you mean to say goodbye...?”

He looked over his shoulder, his eyes widening at the sound of her voice. The ever-stoic Warrior of Light was not the one who stood behind him, but the woman named Mariya, the one who had pleaded with Hraesvelgr for her beloved friend, the one who had held the hand of a man who loved her as he gave his last breaths just for her. This fragile and all too mortal woman that Aymeric had known for most of a decade. A woman he...

“Mariya...”

“Don’t go,” she said between heavy breaths and Aymeric could already see the tears forming at the corners of her eyes, even before he looked. “Please.”

He turned around fully and took her hand in his, the hand that had made him pause. With a soft touch, he kissed the back of her hand, the battle-roughened knuckles still soft against his lips.

“You will always have my heart... and, in this city, a warm home to return to. Ishgard will never be closed to you and never will we forget what you have done.” He sighed, pressing his forehead to her cold fingers as he knelt before her in much the same way he had taken his vows as a knight. For the moment, he did not care for the whispers of Ishgard’s elite class. “I cannot accompany you on your journeys, but I hope you will continue to hold me in your heart as I will always hold you. I pray that the Fury will watch over you and return you to me when time and peace allows.”

When he looked up to her, Mariya stared down at him, stray tears as streaks down her cheeks, but with a softness in her eyes. She knew, just as much as he did, that this was perhaps as much as they could have hoped for. As much as could be given, considering the duties of the Defender of Eorzea and the man who would lead Ishgard into its uncertain future. He stood again, and pressed the palm of her hand, gloved as it was, against his heart.

“I love you,” he said, words soft enough (he hoped) that only she could hear. “I love you more than anything. But...”

“But you made a promise,” she said, finishing his sentence with a warm and gentle (and so very sad) smile. “As I did.”

“Yes.” He shut his eyes. “Such is the nature of man. Such is the needs of people who rely on us.”

She wrapped his hands between two of her own, the touch warming and gentle in the cold of Ishgard’s nights. Aymeric stood then, placing his free hand over hers to complete the connection. Part of him wondered if perhaps, one day, the two of them might run away... if only for a day and a night, maybe hole up in Dravania with nothing more but love and a freedom to touch and feel.

“‘Tis not enough,” he began, his voice quiet. “To just love, is it? Gods know how hard it was for me when I knew not if you were a figment of my imagination. I can only imagine what your hardships are like. The world so very heavy on your small shoulders... moving always from one battlefield to the next...”

She shook her head and the soft way her hair swayed against her cheeks made Aymeric look on with wonder. She was, without a doubt, more beautiful a creature than he had ever seen in all his years. Mariya looked up to him and took one more step, so that their eyes were clear to each other.

“It would be...” She sighed, glancing around the airship dock, as if trying to assure their privacy (which was, undoubtedly, already broken). “It would mean a great deal to me, if... If you would promise me... that when I could... I could come here. See the only semblance of a family I have left and... to see you.”

The stars were bright in her gold eyes, the earnestness in them like the welcome rays of sunshine on a cold morning.

“Always,” he replied without hesitation. “I’ll always have a place here for you. I’ll wait forever if need be. Whether it be in this life or in the Halls of Halone, I will wait for you.”

Without noticing, the lovers had come close to one another, their hands wound together and their breaths only ilms apart, Aymeric naturally bending his tall Elezen frame towards the petite Hyuran who stood on her toes, her head tipped back slightly. He smiled with all the affection and adoration he knew he held within him, abandoning his pride and his manners, no longer giving much of a damn if his love for the Warrior of Light was but the worst kept secret in all of Eorzea. And, by the Grace of Halone, she smiled back, the same feelings expressed in the light in her eyes and the beautiful bow of her lips.

He wanted to kiss her. He wanted just one last moment before she was gone from Ishgard, gone from where he could so easily see her, if just by happy circumstance through the glass of his manor’s windows. He wanted so much... In his heart, he knew what he wanted, what he hoped for above all else.

“I wish you could stay,” he stated, finally, his voice heavy. He felt tears stinging at the back of his eyes, but he was too proud (at least) for that. Yet, he refused to play the part of politician and keeper of peace. Not now. And so, he pulled her to him, holding her tightly to him, breathing in the smell of sunshine and the winds in her hair. “I wish I could go with you on your journeys. I wish... I wish for so much, my love. I never want to be apart from you... but I am a coward. I am a coward to the needs of others... and yet, here I am, hurting you with my selfishness. I am a sorry fool and I hate myself more than you know. I do not know why you love me, for all that I have done and all that I do to you.”

Her arms slipped under the cloak of his armor, wrapping around his torso as much as they could.

“Because you see me as me,” Mariya replied, voice so soft it was barely above a whisper. “You know I was once someone who knew not of the gods nor dragons nor anything else. I do, Aymeric, I do want to stay. I want to stay so much that it hurts. But I can’t and if I don’t go, how can I know that there would be a home here... with you... to return to?”

She sighed and by the shudder in her body, Aymeric knew she had begun to cry. He pulled the fabric around his armor around her, trying to shield her from the eyes of those who might judge her for her weakness. Oh, he could feel a touch of rage, that she could not just be the girl he knew she was, the woman who felt fear and sorrow, but also joy and love. Why Halone, he prayed, did the Twelve see it so fit to bring them together, only to pull them apart again? To drive him mad with her memory, to give him a taste for the addiction of love, and then take it away all the same?

“Godsdammit,” he whispered, gruff. “This is not fair. This is not fair to you or to me.”

A touch on his arm and all the anger flitted away just as easy as it had come, her lips against his fingertips.

“We can’t dwell on what we can’t change,” she sighed. “I know that there will be more for me to do once I go back to Fortemps Manor, but... for a moment... can you give me just one small thing?”

He looked down to her, even as she spoke into his palm, his skin unbearably warm even in the frigid night air. Her eyes were half-closed, thoughtful; her hands touching him with such softness, such gentle heat. He felt himself take in a deep breath, a subconscious need to calm his nerves. He was so pathetic, Aymeric laughed inwardly, in so much that this pretty and petite Hyuran was his greatest weakness.

“Anything for you, my love,” he replied, allowing himself to nuzzle into her hair.

“Then take me home.” The tenor of her voice was calm, assured. “Take me to your house and let me know the home I should have from now on... Let me spend this night with the man I love.”

“Of course,” he felt the urge to bow politely, but only smiled into her hair and skin, the amusement over it alleviating much of his guilt and suffering. A turn of his wrist and he reversed the touch, his hand now holding hers, before he led her up towards the Athenaeum Astrologicum, passing that towards the smaller of the homes of the High Houses. It was late enough, he told himself, that there certainly had to be less nosey nobles about. But her hand in his, she squeezing his grip just a touch, reminded him of her presence, that it was still his turn to give her what he could, even if it was (of course) not quite enough.

Entering into Borel Manor, so much smaller in comparison to the “major” high houses, Aymeric pulled his lover in before him, his back to the door as he shut it. She made a little twirl and he found himself fascinated all over again, seeing her as he did every time, as if she were new and yet everything he already knew he held dear. Every motion, every look, ever gesture, the very color of her eyes that haunted him already--he wanted to memorize it all over again, knowing this time might be the very last they could share, alone and as one.

Taking her hand again, he guided her across the foyer, putting all the gallant and charm in his step as he did for all those social events he had ever forced himself into to get to the position of Lord Commander. But this fair maiden, he knew, was not some socialite or debutante who admired his handsome features (nor his eligibility as a bachelor of a High House), but a woman who knew him through and through. He smiled at her, his Mariya, the girl they called the Warrior of Light, and she greeted him with a warmth that melted all his worries away.

There was a certain pleasure in leading the woman into a dance, this girl entrusted with the power of gods, slayer of lesser gods. Without a word, they fell into the motions of a certain type of waltz popular in Ishgard, not just embracing but with twirling and cross-steps. It didn’t really matter what sort of dance it was, as the lovers moved out of instinct, anticipating each other’s movements and reacting as if dancing was but another form of battle. But there was no animosity in this fight, only lingering touches and long glances. When Mariya, Aymeric’s Mariya, giggled as he twirled her a final time, he felt his heart leap into his throat, the sound more beautiful than any music that had ever reached his ears.

“By the Fury,” Aymeric breathed, “you are more beautiful than even the glorious vistas of the Churning Mists.”

She laughed, placing her hands together in her joy.

“You are such a flatterer, Ser Aymeric de Borel,” she teased. “I’m sure all the eligible maidens in the High Houses would be so happy to be your wife.”

He huffed, glancing at the tones of blue on the wallpaper, the blood rushing to his cheeks.

“And, what of you, Miss Mariya Lugria?” He retorted, feigning indignation. “Certainly many a man has proclaimed your name with wonder, have they not?”

Her eyes softened a touch, a hand over her heart.

“Not like you have,” she said, more of a sigh than spoken words. “No one will ever be like you.”

Aymeric paused, his pale blue eyes watching the woman steadily. Never in his life had he felt so fulfilled... and yet, so undeserving. For all his ambition and hope, he had never felt so humble before another, never felt that he did not deserve whatever he sought. Even his father, he had known he deserved to be treated as a son, had fought his way through the Temple Knights because he knew he could prove his worth, because he was worthy... But, why, in this instance, did he feel so... not?

And so, in his heart, he swore he would do whatever it took to prove to both himself and to her that he was, indeed, worthy of this wonderful woman’s love, whose heart gave so much to everyone, who never thought to think of reward or recognition just to do her part on this star. And he would start with this night, fulfill this oh so small request which meant more than any amount of gil or title that could ever be given.

He approached her, then, these thoughts in his mind, his hands reaching for the sides of her face, his fingers brushing through her feathersoft raven hair, skin as soft as the lightest clouds. Gazing into her gold-colored eyes, he decided to keep honeyed words to himself, to let her senses discern and convey his affections, his dreams, his devotion. Bending down, he took her lips with his, her lips parting easily as his tongue darted forth for another dance, another struggle.

Their kiss lasted several moments, so long that Aymeric was not even sure of how much time had passed, only seeing the moon high in the sky, both of them breathing as heavy as one might when coming above water for air. Mariya, the precious girl, held onto him fast, melting into him with a pleasant hum. He held her close again, breathing her in, before the brush of his lips against her hair made him press his lips across her temple, a touch above her brows, one to the corner of each eye, her cheeks, the tip of her dainty nose (which made her giggle, much to his own happiness), and then a soft touch to her lips. She sighed, a pleasant sound, before wrapping her arms around his neck, just as Aymeric lifted her from her feet.

He carried her in the quiet, just holding her close as she nuzzled softly into him. What a difference, he wondered, on their first meetings to where they were now. Perhaps he was not as terrible a man as he thought he was... Or maybe he had wanted redemption all along, for everything--from being a bastard son, a boy who other children mocked, a soldier who pushed himself too hard, to a man who had been consumed by two unending goals: the future of his home and people... and to have his dream lover. And yet, a man of principle, Aymeric knew he had to choose and both lovers knew, in the end, what his choice would be, had been since time immemorial.

Aymeric stood in bedchambers, looking around the room before his eyes settled on the woman in his arms. If he did not know any better, he almost considered that perhaps Mariya was exhausted. Though he knew she was, from life in general, her eyes as they gazed up at him, need and hope in them, told him she wished only for him. Always that look of wonder, the gaze so steady but never with fear.

Instead of dropping her on his bed, as he might have done (and did) before, Aymeric settled Mariya back on her feet. When she looked up to him, he reached his hand to her cheek, his fingers just below her earlobe, the thumb brushing against her cheek. With one small, slow stroke, he conveyed every thought and feeling he had for the one they called the Warrior of Light.

But to him, to Aymeric,she would always be just ‘Mariya’.

In the span of seconds, their lifetimes played before them, for each other.

Aymeric, the bastard son, an orphan whose mother had passed too soon, adopted by an elder Viscount who treated him far better than he thought possible, who bequeathed him a title, a name, and a family. This boy who would grow older, who would for the sake of the family who showed him kindness when no one did before, try to earn the name they had given him, the sword he carried, joining the Temple Knights as early an age as he could. A young man who saw a kindred spirit in a lone lancer, a dragoon who would become the deadliest of all dragoons, whose taciturn ways hid a pain that Aymeric could understand, even if it (Aymeric was sure) was more than he could truly understand

Aymeric, the man who would become Lord Commander, who saw an opportunity in a Garlean spy turned to a close friend, who gave everything into finding a way to right the wrongs of his people.

A man who had but a moment of weakness which would lead him to a punishment he had not ever considered before. A love he could hardly understand and drove him to near insanity, if not for his devotion to Ishgard and her people. A woman who slipped from his fingers not for what she did, but because he did not hold on tighter.

Mariya, the Warrior of Light, who was but a Hyuran girl, an orphan like Aymeric, raised on the field of battle as a member of Ilsabard’s resistance against Garlemald. A girl who... withheld her history and thoughts, the memory of the lost too much to bear to speak freely of her homeland. A young woman who had come to Eorzea to assist others, but gifted with strengths divine. A young woman who felt loneliness to the most bitter of degrees.

A woman who saw the same loneliness and despair in a fellow dragoon, whom she fought against and alongside, equal in battle and in spirit. A woman who saw two lost twins, who had lofty goals, but knew not what bitter hurt lay before them. A woman who others sacrificed themselves for, time and time again, though that only gave way to more pain, more burdens.

A woman who came face to face with a dream, a dream lover who wanted nothing from her but her, in the physical and the spiritual.

The slow growth of romance.

What had started as lust (at least, for Aymeric) came a slow dance of two souls. Admiration in each other for small kindness, hope in each other, each bearing a shoulder for the other to rely on. A smile here, a word of kindness there, unspoken praise in the gentleness in their gazes. Aymeric slowly losing his guard around Mariya, without truly realizing it, just as she opened up her thoughts to him. Each whispering prayers for the safety of the other.

The look of horror on Mariya’s face, the stoic mask slipping again, when her and Alphinaud were told the attempt on Aymeric’s life.

The absolute fear in Aymeric’s heart when he heard that Mariya had been attacked by his own people to keep the “savior” from stopping their protests.

The joy in Mariya’s gaze as she watched Aymeric lay his eyes on the true beauty of the Churning Mists, his amazement at such a simple thing so dear to her.

The relief and full gladness in Aymeric’s soul as he saw Mariya still standing after freeing their friend from the dread wyrm, Nidhogg. The encroaching bitterness that he had not fought by her side against the dragon.

The flutter in Mariya’s heart as Aymeric simply spoke the words: “welcome home”.

The pain of parting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GAWD. I thought I had uploaded this last chapter A YEAR AGO and now I realize I hadn't. I am so sorry to anyone who was following this little fic, but I hope this comes as a welcome surprise! 2018 was a crazy ass year for me, so I had dropped off the face of the planet. Many thanks for everyone who has read and commented and given kudos! It warms my heart to see that there are those who have enjoyed my writing. 
> 
> I AM working again on this "series" (it was always supposed to be), so whoever has waited, I so appreciate your patience even as its been strained so very badly. I promise, this isn't the end of the story of Aymeric and the WOL!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for indulging me in this chapter... I had originally written this as a strange one-off, but I couldn't help but continue... and I had just gone through about all of Heavensward and was dying for more Aymeric in my life. (I mean, come on, who doesn't want more Aymeric in their life??) I wish there was so much more of him in Stormblood. *openly weeps*
> 
> It's been a while since I've shared fanfiction at all, so I hope it's alright! Thank you in advance for any comments/suggestions/etc. you'd like to leave. I apologize also if I have a weird writing style. I've been known to take "creative liberties" in my way of writing.
> 
> Thank you again!


End file.
